


Where the Devil Don't Go

by betts



Series: Of Cops & Strippers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Crack Treated Seriously, Cunnilingus, F/F, Femslash, Humor, Mildly Dubious Consent, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We all chip in for a lap dance,” Rogers explained, and Jesus, Hill never thought she’d hear the words ‘lap dance’ come from Steven Grant Rogers’ beautiful, saintly mouth. “First person to finish wins it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Devil Don't Go

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a fervor upon getting frustrated with everything else I'm working on. I'm on vacation, no internet, posting before this Starbucks (heh) closes so it's not beta'd. Sincerest apologies for errors.
> 
> God help me if this becomes a series.
> 
> Title from Elle King's "Where the Devil Don't Go" which is what I listened to while writing this.

When Hill said she wanted to be treated like one of the guys, she didn’t mean like this. Not that she hadn’t been to her fair share of shitty strip joints, but El Greco’s was as sleazy as they got. There was red carpet on the walls, for godsake. Christmas lights haphazardly strung up corner to corner in the middle of July. A jukebox with vinyls that skipped from overuse, filled with the B-sides of classic rock hits.

The four of them nabbed a table in a corner, and Barnes, grinning, said, “First round’s on me,” then skipped off to get a pitcher of beer.

“I told you you’d regret this,” Wilson told her. That was the problem: the three of them--Barnes, Rogers, and Wilson--frequented El Greco’s (“They have good nachos,” was Rogers’ sheepish excuse), and even though Wilson was her partner and she worked closely with Barnes and Rogers, they never invited her. And they knew she was stark-raving queer, if the permanent state of off-duty flannel didn’t scream it loud enough. Hell, she was more butch than Barnes, and she suspected the grand majority of his interest in the place was less about scantily-clad strippers and more that he wanted to be one. Which, now that she thought about it, was likely another reason Rogers set aside his feminist sensibilities to frequent a strip joint with good nachos--it probably gave them an excuse to at least think about sex in the same room together. Not that she had any concrete proof they were hooking up, but you just didn’t look at each other the way Barnes and Rogers did without at least a few furtive, post-case, adrenaline-fueled handjobs.

“Far be it from me to rain on your astonishingly heterosexual after-hours proclivities,” Hill said, eyeing the stage in front of them, stretching out in the middle of the room like a runway with two shiny gold poles on it. “I get that Rogers is obligated to go wherever Barnes takes him, but I don’t get how they drag you here too.”

Despite the poor lighting, she still caught the blush that rose to Rogers’ poor pretty face. The guy could kill a man with his bare hands without blinking, but here, he looked like a shy schoolboy at a middle school dance.

Wilson grinned at her and replied, “You’ll see.”

Barnes returned with a pitcher so full that it sloshed around when he set it down, but El Greco's was the kind of place where you didn’t bother cleaning it up because you wouldn’t put your cell phone on the table anyway.

He filled four iced-over mugs and set them in front of everyone, then took a seat himself. “Ready?”

“Wait,” Hill interrupted when the three of them grabbed their handles. “Explain.”

Rogers looked at her with a dead-serious expression, boyish shyness gone at the inception of a challenge, dumb little wrinkle between his eyebrows that he got whenever he was about to give a rousing speech on do-goodery and/or fuck shit up. “We all chip in for a lap dance,” he explained, and Jesus, Hill never thought she’d hear the words ‘lap dance’ come from Steven Grant Rogers’ beautiful, saintly mouth. “First person to finish wins it.”

“You’re all children,” Hill said.

Barnes glared at Rogers. “What did I say? I said it would be like bringing my ma here, didn’t I say that?”

“Shit,” Wilson replied, “I thought your ma already worked here.”

Barnes kicked him under the table, and Rogers told Hill, “You don’t have to drink, but you still have to chip in,” in the way the newest person tells the next newest person how they got roped into such an absurd tradition.

“Fine,” Hill replied, and grabbed her handle. “Ready.”

Barnes counted to three in Russian and they chugged.

What the guys didn’t know about Hill was that she’d been shit-faced from ages sixteen to twenty-two, as soon as she figured out how easy it was to waltz into frat houses on Saturday nights and drink big guys like Rogers under the table. After they passed out, Hill usually ended up making out with their girlfriends.

So when Hill slammed her empty mug of beer on the table a solid five seconds before the rest of them, they stopped drinking and looked at her like she was the Second Coming.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Wilson said.

Hill wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Somebody said something about a lap dance?”

“Just wait,” Barnes told her. “It’s not any ol’ lap dance. It’s a lap dance from the Black Widow.”

“The Black Widow?” Hill asked.

Barnes leaned across the table and said conspiratorially, “You think we come to a place like this for the nachos?”

Rogers fidgeted in his seat.

“I’m telling you,” Barnes continued, “this girl is either an angel sent from heaven or satan herself. If you weren’t already batting for the other team, she’d turn you, no doubt about it.”

Before Hill could come up with a snarky reply about, _No wonder you’re here instead of Rogers’ bedroom_ , the house lights dimmed and an outdated classic rock guitar riff started up. Spotlights spun on the little stage and the ragged black curtains parted.

Like Hill mentioned, she’d been to a lot of strip clubs, had seen her array of nuns in nothing but wimples and nipple tassels, schoolgirls in skirts the width of headbands, and naked women with cesarean section scars covered up in mounds of drugstore foundation. But never before had she seen a stripper walk out on stage barefoot, red hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a threadbare white t-shirt.

And God rest Hill’s weary soul, when this Black Widow chick hoisted her little curvy body onto the pole like the room wasn’t full of big gross men watching, it was the hottest goddamn thing she’d ever fucking seen.

Hill’s jaw must have dropped, because Wilson elbowed her and said, “Right?”

Black Widow didn’t even take off her clothes. She didn’t have to. Her fluid movements made her braless tits push against the mostly transparent fabric, pulled up to expose pale hipbones. The gap in her cutoffs gave the barest tease of a black thong. They were so tight around her legs and crotch that the camel toe left absolutely nothing to the imagination. But that was what made it so hot: she was completely exposed without shedding a single article of clothing, like watching her in her own bedroom from a crack in the closet door.

If Hill shifted wrong in her seat, she could come right there and probably be able to go a few more rounds too. Her cunt was so throbbing wet that she was willing to fuck Rogers. And Barnes. Together. (At least maybe then their dicks would touch and it would chip away at a little bit of the obnoxious sexual tension at the precinct.)

Black Widow twirled on the pole, wrapped her body around it like she was made of water. Or fire. Or some other substance that could change itself to fit a certain shape instead of the other way around. Hill was built like a two-by-four: sturdy and unyielding and able to knock a guy out with one good swing. She couldn’t wrap her brain around a person like Black Widow. Beautiful didn’t begin to cut it.

Black Widow jumped down from the pole, quirking a half-smile at the hollering audience before making her rounds. The four of them craned their necks across the room to follow her movements, helpless shadows in the face of blinding divinity.

She made it over to them, putting a foot between Wilson’s legs before stepping onto the table. She took their half-full pitcher and poured it over her chest, squatting up and down to the beat of the music so the beer wet all the way to her crotch. Hill could see the dusty pink of her hardened nipples beneath her shirt, dollar bills from other patrons tucked in the thong peeking out of her shorts. She climbed off the table and straddled Rogers’ lap, whose eyes went wide with nervous fear. Egged on by the terror etched across his handsome features, she grinded her beer-soaked cunt onto the bulge in his pants.

Hill risked a glance at Barnes, who looked so desperately aroused and confused that she would have laughed if it weren’t so damn pitiful. Normally he was too busy being an overconfident manbun-clad hipster bro that he didn’t have time for genuine facial expressions. But now, he looked like he couldn’t decide whether to pull her off for himself or take her place on Rogers' lap.

Wilson gave her a _what adorable closet bisexuals_ look which she promptly reciprocated. Hill would give Wilson a solid two on the Kinsey scale even though he was happily married to a CIA agent named Sharon. And she’d bet her left nut that they invited Wilson’s BFF Riley to bed now and again. No one could resist a six-foot-four blond brick wall with a million dollar smile and a heart of pure gold. No one.

Black Widow finished her dance and stared down at Rogers expectantly, who let out a little, “Oh,” and pulled some bills out of his pocket, politely sticking them in her thong with trembling hands. Pleased, she sauntered back to the stage. Rogers shoved his chair under the table to hide the obvious--yet impressively large--tent in his pants. Barnes’ face was cherry-red as he faced the stage again, arms crossed like he didn’t give a shit the love of his life got a free lap dance from the hottest woman any of them had ever seen in person. Hill guessed Rogers had never won their little drinking game before.

After a few more grand-finale swings on the pole, the song ended and Black Widow exited the stage to wild applause.

“You ready?” Wilson asked, clapping Hill on the shoulder.

“I need some liquid courage first,” she replied over the music.

They stood from the table and left Rogers and Barnes to their awkward, homoerotic silence.

“They really need to make out already,” Hill said while they waited at the bar for the bartender’s attention.

“I’m working on it. Why do you think I come out here?”

“The nachos, obviously,” Hill replied.

“That too.”

The bartender asked what they wanted. He was a guy with a New York thick accent and salt and pepper at the temples, but who was so built, he probably worked the Ladies’ Night crowd on Thursdays. Hill swore she’d seen him before, but couldn’t place where.

Wilson bent over the bar and handed the guy the wad of lap-dance cash, plus an additional bill for a couple shots of tequila.

The bartender poured their shots, and Wilson held his up. “To big dumb bi boys,” he toasted.

“Here here,” Hill said. She licked the salt off the rim, took the shot, and bit into the proffered lime.

“You’re up,” the bartender told her, and jerked his head toward a room with a bead curtain.

Wilson squeezed her shoulder. “Good luck. Don’t blow your load too early.”

“I’ll do my best,” she replied, and made her way to the bead door.

The VIP room was simple and small, like it had once been a back office. Soft blue lamps lit the room like something out of the sci fi novels Hill never admitted she read. A solitary couch sat at the end of the room, and she took a seat on the middle cushion. Another pole stood in front of her, a stereo on a stand with some speakers in the opposite corner.

Hill waited a solid minute before Black Widow entered the room wearing nothing but a clean t-shirt and a thong. She was still barefoot. Hill had never been big on feet, but there was something about going barefoot in such a filthy place that was weirdly hot. Black Widow didn’t look at her as she took an iPod out of a drawer and hooked it up to the stereo.

“Do you have a preference?” she asked. Her voice was deeper than Hill expected, husky with a hint of an accent that she couldn’t place.

“Blues,” Hill replied, surprising herself. Who was she to have a preference for stripper music?

She apparently surprised Black Widow too, because she spun her gaze around to meet Hill’s across the room. “You’re a woman.”

Hill looked down at herself. “Well shit. I think you might be onto something there.”

So sue her, Hill’s primary method of flirtation was sarcasm.

It worked. Black Widow’s face softened into a hint of a smile as she searched her iPod library. She settled on an album and set it down, then walked gracefully over to Hill and put a knee on either side of her thighs, pushing her back against the couch.

“Waters,” Hill said, trying in vain to stifle the wavering nervousness of her voice. “Good choice.”

“I have good taste,” Black Widow replied. She smelled like beer and sweat, but in a good way somehow, and her tits were right in Hill’s face. Hill couldn’t bring herself to look at them, though. After having spent most of her life on a farm preparing for her debutante presentation, she got into the unfortunate ladylike habit of not looking at women’s chests.

It didn’t leave her with much else to look at, except Black Widow’s face, which stared down at her with intense curiosity, undeterred by their closeness as she moved to the steady rhythm of the music.

“What’s your name?” Black Widow asked.

Entranced, Hill replied, “Maria. Yours?”

“Natasha.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to give your name out.”

“What can I say,” Natasha replied, taking Hill’s hands and placing them on her hips, “you make me wanna break the rules.”

A sign over her shoulder said in big red letters “NO TOUCHING” but Hill figured guided touching was okay. Bodily autonomy and explicit consent and all that. She was a cop after all. It was her job to make these kind of tough calls.

“So Natasha,” Hill said, relaxing a little, letting the pads of her thumbs skate across the smooth skin under the hem of Natasha’s t-shirt. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Does that line work often for you?” Natasha asked, a mischievous smile on her face.

“Dunno,” Hill replied, “never tried it before, but I’m open for feedback.”

“English isn’t my first language. I tend to prefer a more direct approach.”

God, Hill was so fucking soaked that she began rutting unconsciously onto the seam of her jeans. She’d never paid for sex before, but she’d give every penny she had for Natasha to sit on her face right the fuck now.

Natasha guided Hill’s hands up her body underneath her shirt, over her ribs and then to her breasts.

Without thinking, Hill rolled her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. Natasha let out a low moan and Hill removed her hands. “Are you sure? The sign says--”

Natasha huffed a laugh, leaned in and whispered, “My room. My rules.”

Her shirt was still hiked up above her breasts, which were so achingly perfect that Hill wouldn’t need porn again for a decade. Hill pitched forward, mouth hovering over the porcelain spanse of her chest. “So you don’t mind if I…”

Natasha nodded, and Hill brushed her lips against the side of one breast, trailing over it until she kissed a hard-peaked nipple, then slipped her tongue out to graze the tip against it. Natasha’s eyes fluttered shut and she cupped Hill’s face in her hand. Hill pinched and pulled until Natasha was so worked up that a series of beautiful little moans escaped her lips. Hill’s cunt throbbed to the point where an aptly placed gust of wind would make her come.

Natasha took Hill’s other hand and put it between her legs. Hill didn’t waste any time pushing her thong to the side and running two fingers up and down the length of her soaked slit. Her clit was rock-hard and she circled around it with the pads of two fingers. Going down on her was probably too far, but fuck, Hill would give up Rogers’ and Barnes’ future first-born to eat her out like no tomorrow.

Hill slipped her middle finger inside, then her ring finger. Natasha fucked herself on her hand, still to the beat of the music, hitching breaths and a blissful, serene look on her face, braced against the back of the couch. Though Hill tended to prefer au natural, there was something thrilling about a waxed pussy. Or maybe it was just Natasha. Everything she did, every way she moved, every sound she made was agonizingly hot.

“We have twenty more minutes,” Natasha said, voice straining, “and I want you to fuck me.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Hill replied. “How do you like it?”

“Rough, fast. Doesn’t matter. Just want your mouth on me.”

Hill surged forward and kissed her. She expected Natasha to taste like booze or cigarettes, which was probably an unfair assumption, but instead she tasted like toothpaste and kissed like she was starving for it. And maybe she was; a vegetarian trapped in a constant sausage fest.

Hill threaded her fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled, exposing her throat while she trailed open mouthed kisses and bites all the way down it. She felt shockingly possessive of Natasha, wanted to mark her up so that when she danced on stage, everyone would know she belonged to someone else. The voracity of the feeling hit her like a truck, made her squeeze her eyes shut and her mind go blissfully blank.

She wrapped an arm around Natasha’s slim waist and murmured, “Hold on,” before standing up and manhandling her down onto the couch. She met their lips together again, this time all teeth and tongue, her hand between Natasha’s legs, fucking her hard and fast with two fingers, the pad of her hand rubbing hard against her clit.

Natasha said something in...Russian, maybe? and followed it up with, “Eat me out, Maria. Please.”

Hill got weak at the knees for begging, and as much as she considered herself a strict top, she always gave in to pretty girls who knew when to say please.

She trailed kisses all the way down Natasha’s body until she settled between her legs. Natasha spread them, one on the back of the couch and one on the floor. As much as Hill wanted to memorize every curve and line of Natasha’s beautiful cunt to paint and put up in the goddamn Louvre, they had a time limit. She teased at Natasha’s clit with the tip of her tongue, testing at first, finding a rhythm based on Natasha’s breathy, pleased sounds.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurred to Hill that going down on a stripper in the back room of a dive where every surface was sticky with who-knew-what was probably a bad idea. But Hill had never had the most practical of sensibilities anyway.

All higher mental faculties went out the window as she sucked on Natasha’s clit and fucked her with two fingers, pausing periodically to catch her breath and bite at the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Natasha groaned out strings of phrases in more languages than Hill could keep track of.

She could feel Natasha’s body start to tense under her ministrations, her hands in Hill’s hair, pressing her breasts together. Hill couldn’t tear her eyes away, the view from between her legs stunningly beautiful. Were her mouth not otherwise occupied, she would probably be compelled to recite love poetry from some deep, long-forgotten and incredibly gay part of her brain.

“Fuck,” Natasha said, body strung tight like a bow where Hill kept the arrow poised. “I’m--”

Hill pressed her fingers upward and kept her rhythm. Natasha gasped and her walls throbbed around Hill’s hand, hips bucking against her face, lip bitten between her teeth as she struggled not to cry out.

Hill stroked her through it until her body twitched with oversensitivity. Normally, Hill was always up for another round or ten, but their time was almost up. She sat up on her knees and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand while she unbuttoned her fly with the other. She leaned over Natasha and kissed her hard while reaching into her pants and fingering herself.

It took all of a dozen seconds before she was coming on her own hand while Natasha murmured sweet, other-language somethings in her ear, kissing all over her face and neck like they’d done this a thousand times before.

After they’d caught their breath, Natasha whispered, “Time’s up.”

Hill stood and tried to smooth out what was obviously a rumpled and well-fucked appearance. “So,” she began, reaching behind her head to fix her ponytail, “same time next week?”

Natasha gave her a dark smile that settled in Hill’s gut and made a home there. “If I’m still around, sure.”

“Good,” Hill nodded, backing toward the hideous bead door. “See you then,” she added just to seem totally cool and casual and not at all like she’d fallen head over heels in the span of a half-hour lap dance turned quick, hard fuck.

“See you,” Natasha replied with a little innocent wave that belied her kiss-swollen lips and hard nipples and ruined thong, not moving an inch from her corner of the couch.

“Yeah,” Hill said with finality, steeling herself and finally leaving the room.

She made it back to the table, where Barnes and Wilson took one look at her and then glanced at each other knowingly, but precious Rogers just smiled and asked, “Have fun?”

“Something like that,” Hill replied.

Life went back to normal the next morning, like nothing had happened. Barnes flicked rubber bands at Rogers while he did all their paperwork for them. Hill and Wilson rode their bikes around the park and tried not to die of heatstroke. They reprimanded jaywalkers and litterers, went to elementary schools to give safety demonstrations, and otherwise had the easiest lives a couple suburban cops could ever have.

They all returned to El Greco’s the next week, but the place was closed, police tape over the door, neon signs and Christmas lights gone dark.

Hill looked up what happened: a big drug bust that had been in the works for months. She figured out where she’d seen the bartender before--on their Most Wanted list, a guy named Rumlow who worked for a kingpin named Pierce. Regardless, Hill was still haunted by a stripper who was now probably out a decent-paying job and had to move elsewhere. She bet Natasha wasn’t even her real name, and went so far as to google “black widow stripper” at home during Jeopardy! to no avail. She’d just have to accept that she had an amazing, weird one night stand and would have to move on.

The next week, Wilson got put on a case that no one was allowed to know about, which unnerved Hill more than she expected. She played her discomfort off as not wanting to deal with Barnes’ and Rogers’ rampant unresolved romantic tension in the office by herself.

“They’ll jump each other’s bones eventually,” Wilson said, giving her a one-armed hug goodbye. “Just be sure to take a picture for me when it happens. I’ll get this bitch closed and be back before the wedding.”

“You better. I’m not taking care of these idiots during the bachelor party by myself.”

Hill spent the afternoon staring at the empty desk across from hers in their small office shared with Barnes and Rogers. Barnes had folded up a series of paper footballs and was flinging them at Rogers, who caught them all and threw them in the trash can under his desk without looking away from his monitor.

Fury knocked on the doorframe. “Officer Hill, we’ve assigned you a new partner.”

Hill stood from her desk with a sigh. Probably some trigger-happy rookie who didn’t know his ass from his elbow--

“Officer Romanoff, meet Officer Hill. Hill, Romanoff,” Fury said.

Barnes flicked his paper football absently, jaw on the floor. It hit the side of Rogers’ head, who had turned around at his desk, similarly awed at the familiar new member of their team.

“Romanoff just finished up the Pierce case. Shut the whole operation down from inside,” Fury explained.

Romanoff quirked a knowing eyebrow at Hill and said, “Maria, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) and/or [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days).


End file.
